


sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

by fartherfaster



Series: Imperious Wrecks [7]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pablo Neruda's Poetry, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 01:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fartherfaster/pseuds/fartherfaster
Summary: The time comes when they have to deal with the consequences.





	sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally watched Netflix's _Daredevil_ and fell in love with Rosario Dawson. Send help.  
>   
>  Major kudos go to the author [Rubynye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye) for the fic [All That I Know](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5342372) for being _the best_ abortion fic that I've ever read. This story was not directly inspired by that one, but it was certainly an influence while I was writing. I hugely recommend everything they've written, oh my God.  
>   
>  This was also heavily influenced by Neruda's poem "The Wind is a Horse", below in its entirety. Please read it, I promise it's worth it. It's the best ClaireDevil poem out there.  
>   
>   
> The wind is a horse:  
> hear how he runs  
> through the sea, through the sky.  
>   
> He wants to take me: listen  
> how he crosses this world  
> to come take me away.  
>   
> Hide me in your arms  
> just for this night,  
> while the rain breaks  
> its infinite beak  
> on the earth and sea.  
>   
> Listen how the wind  
> comes galloping, calling  
> to take me far away.  
>   
> With your forehead upon my forehead,  
> with your mouth upon my mouth,  
> our bodies bound  
> by the love that burns us,  
> let the wind pass over,  
> let it pass me by.  
>   
> Let the wind rush in  
> crowned with foam,  
> let it call and come find me  
> as it gallops through the shadows,  
> while I, who lie submerged  
> in your big, deep eyes,  
> just for this night,  
> I will rest, my love.  
>   
>   
> The title for this work comes from Richard Siken's poem "[Little Beast](http://words-end-here.livejournal.com/29499.html)".

* * *

 

Her phone, shaking on her nightstand, rouses her. She reaches blindly, fingers knocking against small things, nearly upending a glass of water. “Yes,” she says, eyes still closed.

On the other end of the line, there’s an inhalation, muted sounds of the city. “I’m sorry, Claire.”

She sits up, futilely kicking down the bedsheets and reaching for her robe, thrown where it is over her footboard. “Where?” she asks him, not evening bothering to turn on lights as she moves into her living room, “where are you?”

“Here,” he answers, and Claire hangs up, throwing her phone on the couch where it bounces to the floor. She steps around her coffee table, the armchair, makes her way to the tall window in the corner of her living room where the fire exit levels out. The room is darkly lit by the streetlights, the sky behind Matt’s head is the same warm orange-tinged black. There are no stars out. Spring has brought humidity and little respite for the weary. The window opens with a long, grinding sigh.

“Claire,” he says, and he sounds so tired.

She reaches, touches his hand, his arm, not helping him through the window but hovering all the same. “In. Hush,” she says, as Matt lets out a low groan. “Where?” she asks again.

“It’s nothing,” he says, and for a moment Claire think he’s lying again, but she searches with eyes and hands and finds no gaping wounds, no tears in his amour. The warm sounds of the city move in through the open window behind him, and they stand face-to-face, unmoving. Her hands still, one palm cupping his ribcage, fingers tracing where she knows the lean lines of his flank shift with his breath.

“It’s nothing,” he repeats, “there’s nothing, I just -”

Claire’s hand drops. “Tell me,” she says.

“I need you.”

Claire inhales, holding her breath in her chest. “I’m going back to bed,” she warns.

Matt waits.

“Take your armor off, c’mon.” She reaches across the space between them, tugs on his fingers.

“Claire.”

She stops. Matt opens his arms, and she steps into his embrace. She leans her forehead against his cheek, and Matt wraps his arms around her shoulders. Claire closes her eyes, breathes in deeply, and clings to him for a moment. Matt inhales like he’s about to speak.

“Don’t you dare say _thank you,_ ” she grumbles.

“Okay,” Matt’s lips move against her scalp. “I won’t.”

“C’mon,” she sighs.

He follows her into her bedroom, hands working at the clasps and buckles of his suit. As Claire climbs back into bed, he sheds his layers in a heap and works himself out of everything save for his compression leggings. Matt takes a step and reaches with his fingertips until he finds the bed’s footboard, the silk of Claire’s robe where she has thrown it back. “Where are you,” he asks quietly.

Claire hums, rolling onto her back and peering into the dim to make out Matt’s silhouette. “Right,” her voice is sleep-soft. “Come around to your right.” She kicks the covers down a little as Matt puts his knee on the mattress, swinging his other leg up slowly. He moves like there are deep bruises blooming under his skin, and Claire is startled to find herself looking in the dark for old scars. His hand is braced against the headboard as he settles himself against the pillows, and then stuffs one under his ear. Claire lets out a breath of laughter.

“Comfy?”

Matt aligns their bodies, drapes his arm over the curve of Claire’s waist and buries his nose against the nape of her neck. “Perfect,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss against the bump that maps the beginning of her spine. Claire shivers and laces their fingers together, bringing their joined hands up to rest against her chest. Her thumb moves listlessly over the knuckles of Matt’s index finger.

“What happened?”

“I thought you were going to sleep.”

“I’m getting there,” she says around a yawn.

“Just a bad night,” Matt whispers. “I was too late.”

Claire turns her head, looks at him over her shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Her words are almost soundless; Matt deciphers the way her breath moves over her lips, the way her jaw moves against his nose to catch the words.

He leans up on his elbow, pressing their foreheads together. Their lips touch, not quite a kiss. “Me too,” Matt whispers. Tears prick at the corners of his closed eyes and he swallows thickly.

Claire’s lush mouth opens softly beneath his, the tip of her tongue coming out to trace his lower lip. Her heart begins to rush in her chest, and Matt savours the sounds her anticipation makes through her body. She tilts her chin up, closing the distance. She shifts, rolling back into Matt’s body until her shoulders are flat against the mattress and he is pressed tightly along the length of her. Matt untangles their fingers and skates his loosely curled fingers up her chest until he finds her throat, lets his hand settle there. Claire wraps her hand around his wrist, keeping his hand still. Her other hand curls around the back of his neck, tugging him closer. Matt moves slowly, pressing their bellies and hips together in a slow ebb and push.

“I thought you were going to sleep,” he says again, smiling against her lips.

Claire kisses him until she runs out of breath. “Changed my mind,” she sighs, “want this.” She rolls her hips against his. The sheets whisper as she spreads her thighs. Matt settles deeply into the cradle of her body. They breathe together, sighing into the contact, exchanging breath. Matt loves her like this, anxious and wanting. The warm, pungent smell of her sex glides over his mind like a rich smoke, lights up the whole way down his spine. The early gleam of perspiration has begun on her chest, her throat; Matt can smell it, can see the way heat moves under her skin. Her whole body turns ripe and open beneath him. _Moonflower_ , he thinks, he’s heard that before, somewhere. _Ipomoea alba, flor de luna, moonvine_. The bloom that unfurls herself at dusk.

Matt pulls his hand away from Claire’s throat, replacing it with his teeth and tongue, tasting her. Together, they each take a fistful of Claire’s soft sleeping shirt, tugging until it is rucked up under her chin. Matt’s lips skim down, following the heavy swell of one breast. Claire pants in anticipation, threads her fingers through Matt’s hair. One hand traces the thick cord of muscle across his shoulder, her nails digging in as Matt tongues her nipple, taking it tenderly between his teeth. Claire breathes deeply, arching her whole body toward the point of contact.

“Please,” she sighs. Her hips move restlessly. “More.”

His lips move against her skin. “How?” He pushes himself back to his knees and then holds Claire’s ribcage tenderly, like he might hold a bird. Beneath his palms, her blood sings.

“Harder,” she says, taking his hands in her own, guiding with her fingers to demonstrate what she likes.

Matt descends and kisses Claire like he could drink her. He tugs and pinches, and Claire squirms, her soft gasps and sighs filling the space between their mouths.

Her hands skate down his back, her fingertips nudging under the waistband of his pants. “Off,” she orders. Matt leans back, tucks his thumbs in at his hips, and pulls down his leggings and shorts in one go. “Mine,” says Claire, interrupting him as he moves over her again. He reaches for her, finds her waist, and then traces down to the lacy edge of her panties. Matt teases her, skimming the tips of his fingers across her belly so her muscles jump, ticklish. “Matt,” she whines.

“Patience,” he says, tugging her panties down her thighs. “I’ve heard something about waiting, and good things.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, “not interested.”

“No?” He kisses her belly once, twice, moving lower again for a third. His hands cup the warm velvet of her inner thighs, gently spreading her legs further apart. He leans down again, pushing himself farther down the bed. His right hand finds the bend of her knee and pulls it slowly up, over his shoulder.

“Oh.” Claire gasps, shifts restlessly under his hands.

“I guess I agree with you,” he says, conversational. Claire fists her hands into her bedsheets. “I’ve always been a have-my-cake-and-”

“Oh, no, don’t you say it.” A giggle bubbles in her chest.

Matt kisses her thigh reverently. “And-eat-it-too kind of person.” He follows the scent of her, the rich musky sweetness, placing a single, tender kiss over her sex. Claire can barely hold herself still. She arches into his mouth. Matt’s hand spans her thigh, fingers digging in so slightly, keeping her in place. He kisses her again, more fervently, then drags his tongue up the length of her labia once, twice, finding her clit on the second pass. He laps at it gently before taking it between his lips. Claire moans and brings her hand down to the back of his head, holding him in place. Matt tips his head back into her palm. “I’ve been told, too,” he says against her skin, “to not to eat with my hands.” His free hand moves up her thigh, cups her pussy, and then shifts until his thumb is working soft, aching circles over her clitoris.

Claire’s voice is low and thready. “You, _ah,_ ” she gasps, “monologuing lawyer-types.”

Matt’s fingers trace her wetness, delicately curling first one and then two fingers into her. “Objection?” He asks. He curls his fingers, pressing up against the spot where her texture changes under the pads of his fingers. He leans down, teasing her clitoris again with lips and tongue.

Claire bites her lip, trapping a long moan. She pants desperately for breath; the muscles in her thighs begin to tremble. She grips his hair at the nape of his neck tightly enough to make his eyes water. It’s all encouragement, and he goes to her like a man dying of thirst. Her wetness drips down his chin and he curls in a third finger, allows his teeth to drag over her clitoris. She jumps, biting down on a shout.

“I want to hear you,” he says. “Let me hear you, Claire.”

“Condom,” she says, voice shaking. “I want-”

Matt rubs his curled fingers inside her with greater pressure. “Not yet,” he says, “you first.”

Claire takes three deep, gasping breaths. “Then stop,” she grits out, “ _talking._ ”

Matt grins against her skin.

 

\--

 

All the sensations are lining up in a perfect cascade when a soft and ruinous snap, like the crack-pop of a stiff joint, moves across his senses. Matt knows what has happened before he can control his body, the last throes of his orgasm too strong to overwrite. His hips stutter against Claire’s, pumping again and twice, thrice before he can hold himself still. It’s enough time to feel the strange unsheathing, the new texture of Claire’s wet heat, the uneven ripple where torn latex has folded over itself. His voice leaves his throat in a tight, clamped groan.

His face must be telling. “What?” Claire asks. Alarm moves through her muscles; she clenches around him. On the nape of his neck, her hand tightens. Matt feels one last rush of come leave his body.

“Oh,” he sighs, “oh, fuck.”

Claire is unfailingly observant. “Something’s wrong,” she says, hunting his expression.

“Broken,” he says, before realizing that won’t explain things. Afterglow muddles his thoughts. He presses what he hopes is a reassuring kiss to Claire’s shoulder and then carefully extracts himself before rolling to side and huffing for breath. He pushes the bedcovers down, despite Claire’s mild protests, and gestures at the wet mess he can feel against his thigh. “The condom broke. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” He can hear Claire shifting, leaning momentarily away. She puts something soft, almost papery in his hand. “Tissue,” she explains. “It’s,” Claire pauses. “It’s not an emergency, though, right? I mean, we’re okay.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It just… startled me, I guess.” He crumples the wet tissue in his palm, the shredded condom wrapped inside. “Garbage?”

“Gimme,” she says. Matt can hear the near-silent pth it makes when it lands in the bin. Having disposed of it, Claire turns under the covers again, settling her head over Matt’s shoulder, throwing a thigh over his. She presses her cold toes into the warmth of his calf.

“Hey,” he complains.

“Tough,” she says, just as a shiver moves down her body.

Matt uses his free hand to pull the covers up around her ears. “I’ve got you,” he says, stroking the silky skin down her back, tracing those new, terrible scars he wishes he could unwrite.

“Got you first.”

 

\--

 

Claire wakes to the sweet rolling sensation of a climax just out of reach and the familiar feeling of Matt’s hand between her legs.

“Matt,” she sighs, arching back against him.

“Shhh. Your alarm’s going to go off in two minutes. Thought this would be nicer.”

Claire hums in agreement. In another moment, her wetness floods against his fingers and her hips chase the sensation. Against Matt’s forearm, the muscles in her belly tremble, her breathing gone breathy and ragged.

“Good?”

She turns over in his arms and kisses him. She inhales as if to speak, only to be interrupted by the tinny audio of her morning alarm. “I’m going to shower,” she says, kissing him again quickly before slipping out of the bed.

As the covers fall back, the smell of her sex hits him more clearly. It takes a moment for Matt to figure out the difference – the scent is somehow changed, sweeter and almost cloying. Again, he thinks of flowers.

It’s not until he’s in the office hours later, about to take a sip of coffee, that he suddenly understands _why,_ and he spends the rest of the day convincing himself he’s wrong. There is a litany of reasons he keeps this to himself, not the least of which is guilt. It’s a miserable raft, but Matt clings like a man lost at sea.

 

\--

 

Rosa and Stephanie are in the locker room as Claire slips inside, grabbing a bottle of water and a granola bar from her bag. “Have you got a spare tampon?” Rosa asks.

Claire blindly digs around her in purse. “Sorry,” she says.

“I gotcha,” Stephanie calls from the other bank of lockers.

“Godsend,” sighs Rosa, exaggerating the oh sound. She dashes out of the room, presumably to the toilets across the hall. In another moment, Stephanie’s gone too, her pager beeping.

Alone, Claire counts backward under her breath. Two, three, and another weekend, now four weeks and change since – “Shit,” she sighs. “God-fucking-damnit.” It’s not unreasonable that her period might be late, might start this weekend, but a cold feeling settles in her stomach, and Claire knows. Knows in the way her bra pinches differently, the way she’s been photosensitive and headachy every morning for the last few days, no matter how much sleep she’d gotten. She sits down, feeling seasick.

She digs her phone out of her pocket, pulls up the contact number she needs, and dials. A friendly, efficient voice answers.

“Hi, Alexa,” Claire says. “This is Claire Temple, I’m a patient of Dr. Sandra Weismann’s. Can I make an appointment?”

 

\--

 

After work, Claire goes to Matt’s apartment. She knocks once, and the door swings open.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” His voice is fond.

Tears prick her eyes, and Claire sighs. Matt opens his arms, and she steps into his embrace. She wills herself fiercely not to cry as his hands stroke over her shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, “shh. What is it?” He presses kisses to her temple, her forehead, the top of her head.

Claire presses her face into his chest and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m pregnant.”

They stand together in perfect stillness for the space of several breaths. Matt wraps his arms around her a little tighter and waits for the other shoe to drop.

His lack of a reaction is telling. “Did…” Claire’s voice is slow. “Did you know?” She tries to pull out of his arms but he responds too quickly, holding her in.

“I had a hunch,” Matt confesses quietly.

Claire lets out a throaty, watery laugh. “My life,” she says. “I don’t think I even want to know.”

“Super senses,” Matt says helplessly, “you smell different.”

“Yeah,” says Claire. “Oof. I didn’t want to know, and I don’t want to know any more.”

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, lips against the sleek texture of her hair.

“You can apologize for being creepy,” Claire replies, pulling back enough to rest her soft palm against Matt’s stubbly cheek. “You can’t apologize for knocking me up.”

Matt’s smile is lopsided and a little sad. “I can,” he counters.

“You can _try_.”

“Yeah.” His voice is soft, fond. He leans in to kiss her, misses, and gets the corner of her mouth. It pulls up into a smile under his lips and Claire corrects the angle, her mouth lush under his. “What next,” he asks softly, palm tenderly cupping the weight of her head.

Claire sighs again, and this time tears do fall. Their heat tracks against her cheeks and Matt sweetly brushes them away. “We go to bed,” Claire says, her voice thick. “I am still very much freaking out.” Matt takes her hand and begins to lead her into his bedroom.

“You’re very calm,” Matt says gently, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Composure covers a multitude of sins.”

“Hey.” It’s the beginning of a protest, but his voice is tender, wrecked in its softness. Claire sits on the edge of the bed and Matt kneels between her thighs, pressing one hand to her belly. “Not this.” Claire links her fingers behind Matt’s neck, watching him. “I do not and will not regret loving you.”

She cups her hands over her mouth, trying to stifle an unbidden sob. Matt leans in, wrapping his arms around Claire’s waist and pressing his ear against her chest. Her heart thunders, her ribs shift with her gasping breaths, all of her vitally alive and moving beneath his grasp. “Hey, hey, shh. I have you.”

Claire rakes her fingers through her hair, stares at the dark ceiling, makes two fists to fight the trembling that moves through her. She cups Matt’s nape in her hands and tracing, counts his vertebra to calm herself. After a moment, she lets out a wet, weak laugh. “Got you first.”

“C’mon,” he says, leaning back. He skates his palms around the sleek curve of Claire’s ribs, sloughing off her raincoat, her open hoodie. “Let me,” he says, the unfinished take care of you hanging in the dark between them. Slowly, Matt works her out of her street clothes. Once naked, she curls into his silken sheets. Matt stands and strips efficiently, and then tucks himself around Claire, cocooning her chilled skin with his own heat. Soon, the shivers subside, but the odd tear still treks down her cheek, falling onto Matt’s chest. She traces nothing-patterns into his chest hair, focusing on the coarse, warm feeling under the pad of her fingertips.

“We should talk about it,” Claire whispers.

“In the morning. Tonight,” Matt pauses, tightens his arms around her. “Let’s just have tonight.”

Outside, the first warm rain of the season begins to fall.

 

 


End file.
